Of Shadow and Light
by quiet-heart
Summary: Detective Mac Taylor thinks he knows New York City and knows all about monsters but he's about to find out that not all is as it seems. Final chapters up and running.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Welcome to a very special colaboration between me and another writer who is not a member of this site but whom I share and bounce a lot of ideas off and with. This story had been in the works for some time, both as a concept and as written. I sincerly hope you enjoy it._

**Chapter 1**

_Late at night, New York rooftop:_

They say Las Vegas is the city that never sleeps. Guess they didn't know about New York yet. Or crime for that matter.

Even at night there's always something going on because not everyone sleeps at night. In fact, it's often at night that the nastier of the crimes seem to happen.

In the darkness or in the light, it's all the same to me.

I'm a veteran of the New York City Police Department. You don't make it to the level of Detective without seeing a few things, especially not when you're a Level One Crime Scene Investigator. Every day there's always something new, some new twist on the same old story. The theme of the story can be robbery, rape, assault, or my not-so-personal favorite theme, murder. Everyone has a story, even the victims, and it's my job to find out what that story is, even if they are so stupid it's all I can do to not laugh.

I've seen smart people, people with degrees coming out of their ears, do the most amazingly stupid things, and I've seen the exact opposite happen.

Just when I think I've seen it all, I realize I haven't.

The thing is, though, this is my city. As a cop, I'm its protector, a protector of the people, so to speak. And it's a duty I take very seriously. I may not be able to stop the crime but I can see to it that the victim does get justice, no matter how long it takes. Everything's connected and it's my job to find that connection.

Sure, sometimes the amount of seemingly senseless crimes frustrates me. Sometimes it feels like I get one perp off the street, only to have to deal with another one, and another one. I've been cussed at, punched, shot at, you name it, and sometimes by the very people I'm trying to protect. It's enough to frustrate the hell out of anyone. Some days it's enough to make me want to give up. To bang my head against a wall until I bleed or pass out. Or to cry.

But then, something will happen, and I'll realize that all my hard work is worth it. Somebody's got to protect the city, and since I volunteered, it's a duty I won't back away from. And that's enough to get me out of bed, strap on my badge and gun, and on my way to the crime lab.

Rich, poor, young, old, college-educated, dropout, male, female, no one's immune, either as a criminal or as a victim. A lot of people have learned that I can be your best friend, or if you're on the wrong side of the law, your worst nightmare come true.

_New York rooftop, several miles away:_

The night has fallen again. For most it's a time of rest. Not for me. It's the time when nightmare become reality and I become both hunter and hunted, protector, and deadly enemy. What I hunt, few would believe exist, and I envy them in their innocence.

I did not ask for this battle, but it is mine and for me it will end with my death, but not before I have taken as many as I can with me. I will not go gently into this good night.

When I am gone another will be called to take my place, and the fight will continue, as it has always done and as long as we continue to fight, to hope, it will always be. They will not win; we dare not let them, for to let them win is to plunge this world in to an eternal darkness us humans have never seen before.

I remember when I had the same innocence as the people I fight for. It was not that long ago. Now I look in the mirror and see a person I hardly recognize. The face is the same, but the face holds a pair of eyes that show the hardness of a person much older; the eyes of a warrior with so much blood on her hands.

I have scars, so many scars. The physical ones heal but the emotional ones, they will never heal. I've seen those I call 'friend' die before my eyes, helpless to save them. I know, oh how I know, that there was nothing I could have done to save them, to protect them because for some, the darkness came to them because they chose to walk the path without a light.

I know I don't walk this road alone, and that is a comfort, but a small comfort, for I know too, they will die like me. Alone. Forgotten. We only ask one thing; that when we die, we die trying to do the right thing, trying to protect those that cannot protect themselves from that which they do not understand.

My nightmares are real. For those who cross me, I aim to make theirs just as. And while I am still standing, still capable of fighting, I aim to do it well. It's my duty, my calling, and I will not walk away as long as there is breath in me.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: my partner and I thank you for the kind reviews and hope this chapter grabs your attention._

**Chapter 2**

"What do we have, Flack?" Mac asked as he slipped under the yellow tape. It was late at night and he had been called to a darkened alleyway in one of the poorer sections of New York.

"A white working girl known as Sugar. One of the cops who answered the call recognized the vic, having busted her a few times. Real name is Jessica Mandolin, twenty-two. Couple of kids on their way home were using the alleyway as a short-cut and saw the vic, thought she was in trouble and went over to help her only to realize she was beyond any help," Flack said. "And Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"Recognize something?" Flack pointed towards the wall above the victim.

Mac sighed heavily. "I do indeed."

Spray-painted on the wall was what looked like a crude figure with the arms curling down towards the ground, towards the victim, so to speak. It was the same image that had shown up near the two previous victims, all working girls, all dead of a slashed throat and a single stab to the heart. The slashed throat was initially discovered to be the killing blow, with the stab done post-mortem, after the victim was dead.

So far any available evidence was few and far between. The attacker was going after his victims from behind, eliminating the risk of being covered by arterial blood spray. Then they were laid out like a cross; arms out, ankles crossed.

"I don't know about you, Mac, but this whole thing is seriously starting to creep me out. Could we have a serial?" Flack asked.

"After this, I'm willing to say yes, we do," Mac admitted reluctantly.

Suddenly, just like something right out of a horror movie, a hand emerged from the shadows and settled itself on Flack's shoulder. Mac watched as the veteran homicide detective jumped a good foot or so and came down swearing.

"God-damnit, Artie!" Flack swore as the owner of the hand came out of the shadows. The owner's face was still in shadow thanks to a large black Marine Corps cap. Black leather jacket, olive-drab shirt that peaked out from under the mostly-done-up jacket, tiger-striped woodland camo fatigue pants, and runners were the owner's choice of clothing. Mac took 'Artie' to be a young man, based on the clothing, height, and general body shape. "What are you trying to do, scare the hell out of me?" Flack demanded.

As Artie moved more in to the light, Mac realized his assessment was wrong; Artie was, in fact, a young _woman_ with short black hair. She grinned at Flack and looked up towards where the building's fire escape was.

"You didn't hit the fire escape on the way up so you'll live," she quipped.

Flack glared at her. "I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You say that every time I do that to you," she shot back, still grinning.

"Everything okay?" Mac asked, joining them.

"Yeah, sure. Just going to kill Artie here for scaring the crap out of me, _again_," Flack said. Both Artie and Mac chuckled. "Artie, this is Detective Mac Taylor, CSI. Mac, this is Artie. She's a regular at the center where I volunteer with my kids."

The pair shook hands and Mac used this chance to study the newcomer. Fair skin, short black hair, small stature, facial structure and eye-shape suggesting a possible Asian ancestry, and the hardest, coldest eyes Mac had ever seen in a young woman Artie's age. They were the eyes that spoke of having seen too much, done too much, at a young age. The eyes of innocence lost long ago. He wondered what had caused such hardness in such pretty eyes.

"I've heard of you," Artie said. "Word is you're like a damn Pit Bull on the job and a lousy ball player."

"Hey!" Mac protested indignantly. She grinned at him.

"What brings you here, Artie?" Flack asked.

She shrugged. "This is my haunt; I know the area." She nodded towards where the paramedics were preparing to transport the victim to the morgue. "That's the third such murder like that in the last two weeks."

"You hear anything?" Flack asked.

"Enough. That symbol over there," she said, pointing towards the spray-painted image on the wall. "Someone's either mocking Nathor or got their symbolism wrong."

"What do you mean?" Mac asked.

"The arms are in the wrong position. They should be with the hands up towards the sky, embracing the sky, so to speak. She 'brings down' the power of the heavens and embodies within herself all of the grace, beauty, power, and mystery that is woman."

"Who is Nathor?" Flack asked, making a note of Artie's comment in his notebook.

"An ancient Egyptian goddess who's been around for a long, long time. She's said to be the Nile River Goddess of the Moist Heavens, for one. Nowadays she's a symbol for women's spirituality. A more common name for her is simply the Moon Goddess, as she is thought to bring down the power of the moon, women's power," Artie explained.

"Do you know what that symbol means?" Mac asked.

"I'm not one to say," Artie replied. She reached inside her jacket and pulled out what looked like a business card. "This fellow will no doubt have your answers; he's pretty good. Just tell him Artie sent you." Flack accepted the card and Mac read over his shoulder.

"Emanuel's Old World Antiques? What kind of place is that?" Mac asked, looking up. Then he looked around in confusion. "What the hell?" Artie had vanished as quietly as she had come.

Flack looked up. "Hmmm? Oh, don't worry; she does that all the time. Comes and goes as she pleases."

"What do you know about her?" Mac asked, curious.

"Not much," Flack admitted. "The kids call her Artie, which is short for Artemis. She teaches archery over at the center, hence the nickname, but nobody really knows what her real name is or where she lives or anything else like that. With some kids, though, I've learned not to ask. Artie is one of 'em. She may not say much about her private life, but her street info is pretty solid so I've learned to listen to what she says."

"Huh."


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: once again, me and my partner thank you for your kind reviews. Question: is anyone having trouble with their e-mail notifications or is it just me?_

**Chapter 3**

"This the place?" Mac asked Flack.

"Yup. Don't know if Artie will be here or not but she usually pops up here," Flack said. They were standing in front of a community center building, the center where Flack met with his kids.

Artie's tip had proven to be golden and had led them to capturing a killer with a vendetta against his ex-wife who had been a former stripper. Why the prostitutes? It had turned out that all the victims had known each other, and more specifically, the ex-wife. They had been attempting to hide her from the killer, who had been physically abusive towards her. The symbol on the wall and the body positioning had been a lousy attempt on his part to confuse the cops and make them think that there was a cult killer around.

Also, it had turned out that the ex-wife had begun to follow the Goddess religion and had once gone to Emanuel's antique store on the advice of a friend, trying to learn more about the Goddess. Emanuel had turned out to be an elderly gentleman who not only specialized in antiques but also history, especially religious history and had kindly helped the woman.

Unfortunately for the killer, Artie's tip had led them straight to Emanuel, who had also spoken to the killer about the female symbol and seen the man lurking around, watching the woman. Emanuel had not only recognized the man but was also able to give them another golden tip; the killer had bought a particular knife called an athame, which was a double-edged dagger used for ceremonial purposes in rituals and the handle had been decorated with the Triple Moon Goddess emblem on the hilt. They had found the athame at the killer's place and, sure enough, blood was on it, blood that matched the latest victim.

Busted.

Now Mac wanted to thank Artie for her tip, which was why he and Flack were at the center on their day off.

"Hey, Jo-Jo, you seen Artie around?" Flack called to one of the boys as they entered the center. Jo-Jo was a gangly black boy, about thirteen, who was apparently studying at one of the many tables scattered through out the center.

"Yeah sure. She's over at the court," Jo-Jo called back. "She just whupped Davey's ass all around the court." He grinned.

"Again?" Flack asked, a grin on his face. "When will that boy ever give up?"

"He says he ain't gonna give up until he finally whups her ass," Jo-Jo replied, still grinning.

They headed for the basketball court and sure enough, Artie was there, doing some lay-ups and wearing ordinary but loose shorts and shirt.

"Hey Artie!" Flack called.

"Yo!" she called back.

"Get your butt over here, kiddo," Flack said.

"What'd I do this time?" she shot back easily as she joined them.

"Not a damn thing," Flack replied.

"Except that your info was solid and good," Mac said, spotting a nasty looking bruise on the side of her face, one he was sure wasn't there before. "Thanks to you, we busted the guy."

"Glad to hear that," Artie replied.

"How come I've never heard of Emanuel before?" Flack asked.

"Because you know-it-all 5-O's aren't so know-it-alls after all. This city's got its fair share of nooks and crannies and kids like me, we find 'em all the time. We just don't bother telling you about 'em," Artie sassed.

"That's a nasty bruise you've got there," Mac commented.

Artie shrugged. "I'll live."

"Who hit you?"

"Nobody special. Besides, if you think this is bad, you should see the other guy."

"The same guy who gave you that scar on your shoulder?" Flack asked, indicating what he thought was a nasty-looking but well-healed scar slashing across her left shoulder.

She looked at it, shrugged, and said, "Zigged when I should've zagged." When neither men looked quite convinced, she said, "Look, guys, you know yourself the streets can be rough. Shit happens. Leave it alone."

Mac nodded, still not convinced but deciding to back off for now.

"In the mean time, you up to a little one-on-one?" she asked, tossing the ball.

"I think I'll opt out this time," Flack said. She raised an eyebrow at Mac.

He grinned. "If you think you can handle an old cop like me."

She snorted. "Buddy, I'm gonna kick your ass all around the court and not even break a sweat." She grinned. "Tell you what. Two points a shot, whoever hits twenty first is buying drinks."

"You're on."

And what followed was the hardest, roughest game of basketball Mac had ever played. He thought he was in reasonably good shape but Artie, she ran circles around him. She was also incredibly strong, fast, and very agile. Not only that, but she constantly taunted him, grinning the whole time, which took the sting out of the insults she threw at him.

"What, that the best you got? I've seen a sloth move faster than you!"

"What do you call that move? The Jumpin' Jimmy Cricket leap?"

"You better get a move on, old man, 'cause I'm wiping the floor with you!"

"I see it's true after all; white men can't jump!"

"Where'd you learn that move? Kindergarten?"

"Do you need glasses or do they need to make the hoop bigger?"

It was less than a quarter of the way through the game that Mac decided to stop playing nice and start playing rough. Flack, on the other hand, was busting a gut laughing.

About halfway through the game, he noticed they were drawing quite a crowd who was cheering them on. He ignored them, too busy trying to concentrate on the game and get around Artie, who had to be one of the meanest basketball players he'd ever come across. She played fair but rough and she was good.

After fifteen minutes, Artie won the game by an embarrassing twenty to six. Somehow, by the grace of God, Mac managed to drag himself over to the court bench and plop himself down next to Flack, who kindly handed him a cup of cold water. He was breathing hard and sweating just as hard. Artie plopped down beside him, grinning at him.

"Hate to say this, Stubby, boy, but…" she said.

"Name your poison."

"Bottle of strawberry-flavored Dasani," she said.

Mac dug out his wallet and handed Flack a bill. "Her request and the biggest bottle of water available. I am too damn tired to move."

Flack grinned and said, "I'll be right back. Nice game by the way."

Mac grunted tiredly and Artie grinned even wider. Then something clued in to him. "Hey Artie?"

"Yo?"

"Why'd you call me Stubby? It's not my name."

"My name's not Artie, but I get called that anyway. Besides, consider it a compliment. Sergeant Stubby was a highly decorated World War One veteran. Look him up. You might find you have something in common with him," she said sweetly.

"What is your name if it isn't Artie?"

"Right, like I'm gonna tell you."

A few days later, Mac remembered the Sergeant Stubby comment and asked Sheldon about it. Sheldon, who was a wealth of trivia, instantly knew whom he was talking about.

"Sergeant Stubby was indeed a highly decorated war veteran of World War One. He entered the military service in 1917 and was originally at Yale before he got shipped out. He earned a lot of medals during his service and was a very popular fellow during the war," Sheldon said. "At the end of the war, Stubby went home and attended Georgetown University from 1922 to 1923 and died in March of 1926. His actions during the war earned him a brick in the Walk of Honor at Liberty Memorial in Kansas City on November 11 of last year."

"Well, what was so special about him?" Mac asked.

Sheldon grinned. "Stubby was a pitbull, a wardog."

Mac blinked a few times, processing the knowledge. Then suddenly he clued in to something.

Flack was walking by, taking a mouthful of coffee, when he suddenly heard Mac bellow indignantly, causing him to choke with laughter.

"She compared me to a _dog!_"


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: My partner and I thank you for your kind reviews and assure you the coming chapters will be just as good._

**Chapter 4**

It had been a few weeks since Mac had gotten his butt kicked by Artie at the impromptu basketball game and he was still a bit indignant at having been compared to a dog, hero or not.

He was at one of his favorite coffee shops, grabbing his second wind when someone sat down beside him. He turned his head. It was Artie, dressed in ordinary street clothes and that black Marine Corps cap he'd seen her wear before, plus sunglasses.

"Artie," he said, acknowledging her. "I think Flack's around here somewhere."

"Yeah, he is. Just saw him huffing after a fatso of a bad boy. Real cute, except for the fact that he's gonna ruin that nice suit of his again and he gets real pissy when that happens," she quipped, not looking at him, even as she ordered a bottle of flavored water from the waitress.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because Fat Boy likes to play in the mud and he don't play nice," she said grinning evilly. The waitress brought her the water, she paid for it, and cracked the bottle open.

Mac groaned.

"By the way, Stubby boy, warning. I've been hearing rumors that there's something new coming down on the streets and word is it's bad."

"How bad?"

"If it's not plugged and sealed pretty damn fast, the city's going to have to build a bigger morgue." And with that cryptic warning, she saluted him with the bottle and was gone.

_A week or so later:_

Something was happening in the city, something bad. There was a rash of drug over-doses showing up throughout the city. While that was normally no cause for any major concern, this was different because the problem was the number of o.d's had practically skyrocketed. Two, sometimes three, bodies a day were being found. Toxicology levels were showing cocaine in their systems, which was no real surprise, but what was raising some major red flags was that this cocaine was showing to be of a much more lethal mix. Not only was the cocaine of a higher grade, there was also an additive to the usual mix making it lethal to drug users because only a smaller proportion was needed to get the same high. But due to not knowing this, the users were using the regular amount of the drug, causing an over-dose.

The DEA was struggling to put a lid on the new drug source but the problem was no one was talking about where the drugs were coming from. In fact, anyone who seemed to talk wound up dead, complicating matters.

So the DEA had several problems. They had a new drug on the street that was proving more lethal than ordinary cocaine, they had very few ideas as to the source or the supplier of the drug, no one was talking, and the bodies were rapidly pilling up.

It was just as Artie had predicted.

Mac had just gotten back from what was his third o.d. crime scene of the day and was heading to one of the labs when he spotted someone in his office in a navy suit sitting at a chair in front of his desk, muddy booted feet planted on the corner of his desk.

As a man of science, Mac was a bit set in his ways, especially in regard to neatness and order. He absolutely hated it when someone placed their shoes, especially muddy shoes, on his nice clean desk.

He entered his office and said, "Who are you and get your feet off my desk." Then he blinked in confusion as he saw who his guest was.

"Artie."

"Stubby, good to see you again," she said as she took her feet off his desk.

"How can I help you?" he asked, pointedly ignoring the nickname.

"Couldn't find Flackie at his desk, was told he was out, and I didn't feel like chasing his ass all over town, so I decided to pick on you instead," she said.

"I suppose I should be honored," he said, sitting on the corner of his desk and studying her. Along with the black boots, she was also wearing an open navy men's sport's jacket, light green dress shirt with the collar open, and navy pants. From the back she could be mistaken for being just another guy in a suit. "How'd you get here?"

She flapped her hands and said sarcastically, "How do you think? I flew like a little birdie?" He glared at her but she just smiled sweetly. "You 5-Os aren't the only one with methods. How's it going with the Godiva?"

"Sorry?" he asked, not recognizing the name.

"Street name for the shit that's out there. The usual stuff is good, but this stuff is better, like chocolate varieties, so they've been calling it Godiva. Stuff's freakin' expensive too, hence the nickname, not to mention more lethal, but I've noticed a lot of wackos omitting that little fact."

Mac made a note of that even as he answered her question. "The DEA hasn't had much luck putting a lid on it despite their best attempts. Nobody's talking."

"Let me guess; those who do wind up dead."

"Exactly."

"Thought so." She reached inside her jacket, pulled out what looked like a map of the city and handed it to him. "Try that area. From what I was able to gather, that's where the majority of the shit is coming from."

Mac studied the circle on the map. It covered several square blocks of a warehouse district, true, but it did help narrow down possible locations. As he was studying the map, she stood up and straightened her jacket.

"What do I owe you for this?" he asked.

A dark look came across her face. "Nail the bastard who's doing this shit. Better yet, kindly put a bullet between his eyes for me."

"This is personal, isn't it?" he realized.

"You're damn right it is. I've already got a friend in the morgue and two more are not that far behind, all because of that fraggin' shit."

"I'll do my best."

"And so will I."

"Hey Mac?" Stella called to him from the opposite door of his office.

He snapped his head around to acknowledge her. "Yeah?"

She waved a file at him and said, "Just got the latest tox report on our most recent victim. It's that new cocaine stuff all over again."

"Damn it." He turned to speak to Artie…. and found himself muttering, "I _hate it_ when she does that."


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Moska, you're right, Artie has absolutely no respect for anyone, much less a cop; she's a street kid, what do you expect? Her attitude is "Stand up and fight or get out and walk." As for Mac knowing who Sgt. Stubby was, that would have been a bit difficult since Stubby was Army and Mac was Marine. Their history's don't mesh. In the mean time, enjoy the newest chapter._

**Chapter 5**

It was pouring down rain, hard, fast, and absolutely soaking. It was also cold, wet, and absolutely miserable.

The weather forecast had predicted it, of course, but no one had been able to predict the complete and total downpour. If you ventured out, you did so with an umbrella, a sweater, and a neck-to-toe raincoat.

Mac didn't like the rain at all. Sure, he knew it was a cycle of life and the mechanics of science and all that, but the truth was, he hated the rain and that was because it had a nasty tendency to wash away his crime scenes, forcing him to work that much more faster to gather what evidence he could.

It was also bloody uncomfortable to work in.

Thanks to Artie's tip, which Mac passed on to the DEA, the DEA was able to narrow their searches down to the area that she had suggested. Yeah, Godiva was defiantly coming from that area but again they ran in to problems. Just when they thought they were closing in on an area, their suspects would vanish or turn up dead.

The higher-ups were starting to bang their heads in frustration. SWAT was exhausted from all the drug warrants they had executed that week alone, the cops were exhausted from trying to chase down all the suspects, drug dealers, and users as well as trying to stay on top of the regular crime, emergency medical personnel were exhausted from the number of increased drug over-doses, the crime lab was exhausted from trying to process the increased number of crime scenes, and the medical examiners were exhausted from the increased number of bodies they'd received as of late. Everyone was tired, on edge, and stressed out. Yes, everyone was cracking down hard on the dealers but they needed more information, fast, and the trouble was the information they needed was not exactly forthcoming.

And the bodies continued to pile up.

"Looks like we've got another o.d," the officer said as he lifted the tape to allow Mac in to the crime scene which was behind a seedy night-club known for drug use. "Teenage kid, probably in her mid-teens from the looks of it."

"Any identification?" he asked.

"Waiting for you guys," the officer said.

Mac went over to the body, where Sheldon was already at work, processing things as best as he could under a tent set up to shelter the body from the rain. "Sheldon?" he asked.

"Meet Tanya Metcalf, fifteen, attending Manhattan High School," Sheldon said, holding up an identification card. "Looks like she's a first-time user because I'm only seeing one needle mark here."

"And her first time was her last time," Mac said, snapping on his gloves as he prepared to assist Sheldon.

They were halfway through the crime scene when Mac noticed a flickering light coming from across the street. It looked like someone was using a flashlight and searching for something in another alleyway.

"We got anyone over there?" he asked a cop.

"Shouldn't do," the cop said. Mac nodded and, curious, took out his own flashlight and ventured across the street.

"_Maya! Girl, where are you?_" someone called.

"Excuse me," Mac called. The flashlight snapped towards him, light landing square in his face, blinding him. He reflectively put a hand up to shield his eyes.

"Oh, it's you," the owner said. "No surprise to see you here, Stubby."

"Artie?" Mac asked as she lowered the light. Sure enough, it was Artie and she was dressed for the weather, right down to a waterproof vintage trench coat and her usual familiar cap. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Looking for a friend," she replied, resuming her searching. "She's a good person and is trying to go straight but hasn't been easy."

"What makes you think she's here?" he asked, joining her.

"This is where she usually goes for shelter when the weather gets sour," she said.

Mac nodded. Then he sniffed. A very unpleasant but familiar smell was starting to reach him. It was one he recognized instantly and his heart sank.

"You smell it too, don't you?" she asked.

"Smell what?"

"The smell of death. Something's not right with this alleyway," she replied.

He nodded, switching his flashlight on and beckoning towards a few of the cops who had noticed them. They came over and he said, "There's a strong possibility we've got another body here," he told them.

"Wonderful. Another dead druggie?" one cop snarked.

"Hey! Watch your mouth, pal!" Artie snapped. "Drug addict or not, people should be treated with respect, dead or alive, and if you can't do that then get the hell out of here. I'll find my friend without your damn help." She turned away muttering, "Last thing I need is a cop with a bad attitude problem." The cop flushed as Mac raised an eyebrow at him in silent condemnation.

Flack joined them. "What's up, Mac?" he asked. Then he sniffed. "Damn it, I hate that smell. Can never get it out of my clothes."

"Any idea who we're looking for?" the other cop asked, flashlight out and searching.

"A young black teenage girl probably dressed like a street prostitute," Artie called. "She usually hangs in here when the weather gets bad. I saw her on the corner earlier but I haven't seen her since."

"She a friend?" Flack asked.

"Yeah. Trying to go straight and I'm trying to help her get off the streets, but you know pimps. Once they got a good one, they don't really want to let 'em go."

There was a round of nods in agreement as that was usually the case, especially in regards to the younger prostitutes.

After a few minutes one of the cops lifted what looked like a cardboard box and swore. "I think I found her." Everyone joined him and Artie crouched down beside the body of a young black female who was facedown and wearing skinny, ultra-low-rise jeans, a denim jacket that wouldn't have provided much warmth, and platform boots.

"We've got ourselves a new crime scene," Flack said. The cops moved to seal off the alleyway and let dispatch know.

"Artie, is that her?" Mac asked.

"Won't know until we turn her over," Artie said.

Mac quickly grabbed his gear, including his camera, and let Sheldon know what was going on. Then, after snapping a few photographs, he and Flack, who had also gloved up, carefully turned the victim over, who turned out to be a pretty black teenage girl, her eyes closed, her face peaceful except for the white foam at the corner of her mouth. She was wearing a tiny white tie-front crop top that showed of the girl's ample cleavage as well as revealing just how low her jeans went. Classic prostitute clothing.

"Artie?" Mac asked carefully as Flack shined a light in the girl's face. There was no response. He looked up. She was looking down at the girl, breathing hard. "Artie, is this your friend?"

Finally, jerkily, she nodded. "That's Maya."

Something caught his attention and he shone his light on it. It was drug needle and it looked like it had been used. By whom, he wasn't sure, but hopefully fingerprints would be able to tell them that.

"She's not supposed to be here," Artie whispered.

Sheldon joined them, even as the cops started setting up their second crime scene shelter for the day. He quickly checked the victim over and said heavily, "Looks like we got another one, Mac."

"Drug over-dose?" Mac asked.

"Yup."

He nodded.

"Godiva?" Artie asked.

"Hard to tell at this point. We'll know more at the autopsy," Sheldon said.

Artie nodded again.

"Let's get you out of here, kiddo," Flack said gently, moving her out of the crime scene. She went willing, seeming to be in a bit of daze. Mac went with them.

"This has got to stop," she said.

"We know," Flack said, leading her to a small shelter near the alleyway and out of the rain. An officer wearing a waterproof jacket with the words _DEA_ on it joined them.

"I hear we have another dead junkie," the agent said.

The change in Artie was instantaneous. Snarling, she lunged at the officer and was stopped only by Mac and Flack grabbing her on either side and fighting to hold her back. Surprised and suddenly nervous, the DEA agent took a step back, even as another cop, a big burly man, saw the situation and joined them in attempting to hold the teenage girl back.

Mac noted she seemed unusually strong as, despite having three strong men pulling against her with all their strength, she was still managing to drag them forward. He would later attribute it to mostly adrenaline but would not be a hundred percent sure about that.

"You bastard," Artie hissed. "Is it any wonder why Godiva is still on the streets and the bodies are piling up? Good people like Maya are dead or dying and you guys've got your thumbs up your asses!" she yelled. "With assholes like you, is it any wonder the city has a drug problem? It's because you assholes aren't taking it seriously enough! She was just another street kid so why should you give a damn, a long as it doesn't affect your precious statistics or you fat paycheck!"

The agent flushed and said, "Now look here-" but Artie cut him off.

"Shut the fuck up! You don't know anything because you don't _want_ to know anything! Just sweep it under the damn rug and hope it'll all go away! It will go away, when you get up off your fat ass and start trying just a little more harder to see the bigger picture, you fucking bastard!" she yelled.

"Artie, don't!" Flack snapped, trying to calm her down. She reminded him of a snarling female tiger right now and he had a nasty suspicion that if he let her go, she'd do some serious damage to the agent.

"Beat it," Mac told the agent, "before you stick your foot in your mouth again."

The agent wisely beat it.

Breathing hard, Artie stopped fighting. Cautiously, the three men let her go.

"Artie, I know the guy's a jerk but he ain't worth hurting," Flack said gently.

"Oh, I won't hurt him but there's gonna be some serious hurtin' soon," she said darkly. And with that, she took off running down the street.

"Damn it, Artie, wait up!" Mac called, chasing after her, concerned that she might do something stupid, like going after the guys who were dealing the Godiva.

She stopped and looked at him as he reached her. To his dying day Mac would swear he was not able to tell if the water trailing down Artie's face was the rain or her tears.

"I'm sorry about your friend," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders.

"She was a good kid, Stubby, a good kid! She was trying to go clean and she was trying so damn hard! She didn't deserve to die! None of them did!" she cried.

He pulled her to him, put his hand on her neck and hugged her. "I know. No one deserves to die from this stuff." He felt her shiver. "Come on, let's get you out of this rain and some place warm and dry."

She shook her head and pulled away. As he watched, she seemed to gather herself, both mentally and physically. "Too many lives have been taken because of that crap, Stubby. I'm going to end this, one way or another."

"Artie, don't do something stupid," he cautioned her, not liking the coldness settling in her eyes.

"I'm not going to do anything stupid, just what should have been done the first time."

A sinking feeling settled in his gut as he watched her. "You've seen too much death, haven't you?"

"Yeah, more than you'll ever realize, Stubby."

"Where and when?"

"Not where and when, but what, and what I've seen would have you running in terror. Be damn glad you don't have to deal with the monsters that I deal with."

And with that, she was gone in to the night again.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Sorry so long on the delay. Ran in to a few minor problems over on the home hearth, such as Net problems and trying to find the energy to write when I'm struggling to hold on to the contents of my stomach (I'm 7 weeks pregnant and it's looking more and more like I've got twins due to the fact that I'm already starting to show!!!). In the mean time, thank you kindly for your comments and hope this chapter meets your expectations._

**Chapter 6**

The rain finally let up after a day, to the relief of everyone, bringing with it warmer temperatures. That was the only major thing that changed.

The DEA were still not having much luck cracking down on the source of Godiva and everyone was still on edge. It was getting to the point that the Chief Medical Examiner was starting to strongly suggest that the city think about building another morgue or at least hire another bunch of Medical Examiners to help with the already over-worked examiners if this continued much longer.

It was another late night and another long shift for Mac and he was looking forward to entering his apartment, taking a hot shower, and getting some sleep. He was about to unlock the main building door when he sensed someone watching him. His senses went on alert as he scanned the street, carefully studying the shadows of the streets, even as he cautiously put his hand on his gun and released the strap. He nearly jumped out of his skin when someone spoke from somewhere within the shadows.

"Paranoid fellow, aren't ya?" came a quietly amused familiar voice.

Artie stepped from the shadows near the apartment building, grinning with amusement at him. He glared at her even as he tried to get his heart to slow down from the hammering rate that it was at.

"You enjoy doing that, don't you?" he asked, noticing she was dressed all in black, right down to her black leather skull cap and small black backpack.

"Every chance I get," she said sweetly.

"How've you been?" he asked, not having seen her since she'd found her friend in the alleyway about a few days ago.

She shrugged. "Living, which is about all any of us can do. Got a present for you." She joined him on the steps and handed him a piece of paper with an address. On the other side was a crude layout map of the address. "It's not exact but it's solid."

Mac studied the map under the building light and chuckled when he saw a handwritten notion on the paper.

_There be assholes._

"Appreciate this, Artie," he said.

"You think that's good, this is even better," she said, reaching in to her backpack and pulling out what looked like a tape-wrapped package with white showing through it. It was tightly sealed and it even had a logo on it. "You got rubbers with you?" she asked. He quickly pulled a pair of latex gloves from his coat pocket and tugged them on. He had learned to keep a pair in his pockets case he ever needed them, like now. She tossed the package to him.

"Cocaine," he guessed, studying the package.

"Even better, that's Godiva," she said.

"Where'd you get this?" he asked, thinking. He could extract fingerprints and possible DNA from this, as well as a better chemical composition of the drug for their databases. This was like gold for the DEA.

"Got the info off a dealer operating near a high school. He was kind enough to give me directions to the warehouse and I swiped this before it could be cut," she said easily. She lifted her black glove-covered hands and tightened the gloves around her hands, flexing her fingers.

It was then that Mac spotted what looked like a glistening liquid on the knuckle area of the gloves. "What did you do to get this?" he asked suspiciously.

She chuckled. "Man oh man are you ever full of questions, Stubby old boy. What, you want to know my blood-type too? Or my real name?"

"I wouldn't object to that."

"Not a chance. My life is private and I like it that way," she said easily. "As for the info, tell your DEA buddies to get their rear in gear because I'm starting to get tired of doing their dirty work for them."

"You're going to get killed doing this," he shot back.

"Then tell the DEA to get off their fat asses and get with the program; I'm sick of watching the people I care about die because of that shit. There's more happening out there than what they damn well realize."

He reluctantly conceded she had a point as he studied the map and the cocaine, accepting her answers, for now. "You know, you really should think about a career as a cop. You're good at this."

She snorted. "Right, Stubby. I've already been declared certifiably insane. Working as a cop would drive me over the brink."

He chuckled and took out his cellphone to make a call to the DEA whom he'd given the last tip to. As the line rang, he said, "You want a cup of…" He looked up. She was gone. Again. "Artie, would you _quit_ doing that?" he yelped indignantly.


	7. Author's Note

Author's note:

To my valued readers:

I sincerely apologize in the major delay in chapter updates, unfortunately I have been very, very sick as of late, specifically pregnancy sickness. At this point I am nine-going-on-ten weeks pregnant and am struggling to regain control of my body due to the whenever-it-darn-well-feels-like-it's-going-to-hit sickness and the subsequent low-blood pressure problem created by the pregnancy.

I assure you all, as soon as I am feeling up to it both physically and mentally, I will be updating again. I thank you for your patience and your time.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Many, many thanks for your patience and kind thoughts. Fortunately my 'all-day-sickness' is starting to get back under control now that I'm 12 weeks along. ASAP, another chapter will be posted and I sincerly hope they'll meet your satisfaction. For now, enjoy._

It was one of the biggest drug busts in the history of New York City. When SWAT and the DEA descended upon a non-descript warehouse in one of the slightly busier and rougher areas of the industry sector, they hit the proverbial drug goldmine. They hit hard, they hit fast, and they were amply rewarded as a result.

Several hundred keys of cocaine were found, some yet to be cut and some already cut and ready for distribution. Over a dozen people were arrested in conjunction with the drug bust and it was expected that several more dozen would soon follow once the authorities had a chance to talk with the arrested.

Thanks to the tip they had received and the subsequent scouting of the area, the authorities were able to do the bust with an absolute minimum of casualties. In fact, with the exception of one minor, very little thing, the bust was considered huge but perfectly routine.

While the prisoners were being escorted to a holding van, SWAT was maintaining a lookout in case one of the dealers had slipped through their web. In the shadow of the setting sun, one of the officers had spotted what looked like a flash on glass and had automatically trained his binoculars towards the flash, located on a distant rooftop. For a brief moment the officer swore he saw someone in dark clothing with binoculars watching the bust with what looked like a smirk or a satisfied grin, but he wasn't sure. He turned to tap his fellow officer and let him know and when he looked back, the watcher was gone. He made a note of it and he and a few other officers check the location out, but they found nothing. The incident was noted but not followed up on due to lack of anything solid.

If there was one thing Mac Taylor hated more than anything, it was when things didn't add up. Everything had a connection and all those connections went somewhere, so when certain connections didn't add up or were missing, he became more determined to find that connection.

Such as was the case of Artie.

Mac was surprised to learn that Flack knew very little about Artie. He didn't know her real name, where she lived, if she had a job, or how she got around the city. He didn't know too much about her background, except that she had once mentioned hating the cold. Her clothes were never fancy or expensive, just loose, comfortable, easy to get, the kind of clothes that caused her to blend in with the hundreds of other people on the streets. He knew she loved Greek pizza, having seen her devour several slices at a dinner once, a place he knew she frequented once in a while. She had fast reflexes, as evident by the way she played basketball, a sharp mouth, and a habit of showing up and disappearing just as fast. She also had a habit of appearing with bruises or cuts that she would brush off with a wisecrack. Nobody could ever figure out where or how she got her injuries and those who did, weren't talking.

Out of curiosity, Mac checked the package of Godiva cocaine she'd given him for additional fingerprints. Negative. The only prints on the package belonged to various known drug dealers, including one who had been found looking like he'd gone ten rounds with a gorilla and lost. Who the 'gorilla' had been, the guy wasn't saying, no matter what anyone said or offered him. The guy was either absolutely terrified of the 'gorilla' or too badly humiliated to identify his attacker.

So prints were out.

Social Insurance Number? That was a no-go because the Center didn't have Artie's number, never mind her real name.

Tax records? Same problem as the Social Insurance Number.

Hospital records for anyone matching Artie's description? Sure, plenty of times, but never as a patient. She was always escorting, visiting, or dropping off.

Out of curiosity and as a second to last resort, Mac checked Missing Persons, not just in New York but also across the States. It took a few days but he got the same results he'd been getting for the last several weeks in regards to Artie; absolutely nothing. Artie was not a missing person.

That 'nothing' basically equaled what Mac was getting from the streets when he asked around in an attempt to find what the computers weren't telling him; diddlysquat. If anyone knew anything about Artie, about her background, any little tidbit that might give him some idea of her background or habits, their lips were sealed tighter than Extra-Strength Superglue. As a matter of fact, some of his contacts had actually _warned_ him to leave Artie alone, saying that some things were best left alone and Artie was one of them. People tended to disappear when they dug too deeply in to her background and besides, who was to say it was only humans that went bump in the night? When Mac tried to probe that statement he was told, rather cryptically, that not all nightmares and horror stories were just products of an over-active imagination.

Mac's last resort was to check her DNA and try and get her prints but that meant getting them in the first place and that might be tricky. His main problem was he had no real valid reason for checking either, other than plain old curiosity and in the eyes of the law, unless Artie was actually being investigated, curiosity wasn't good enough for a DNA and fingerprint check.

As it was, late one night, after a particularly long and frustrating day at the labs, Mac found himself wandering the streets, having decided to take the long way home that night. He was so lost in thought, his mind working its way through various cases that were on his desk, that he was almost halfway home before he even realized it. Then he heard it; a child-like voice coming from what looked like a very dark alleyway.

"_Help me! Make it stop!_" the voice called.

His senses on Red Alert and his radar up, Mac got out his pocket flashlight and shined the light into the alleyway. Unfortunately his little flashlight had nothing on the large torchlight flashlight he usually used and as it was, the dim light barely even penetrated the unusual darkness of the alleyway.

"Hello?" he called, concern in his voice.

The voice came again.

"_Help me, please!_"

"Where are you?" he called, stepping further and further in to the alleyway, even as he reached for his gun and removed it from its usual resting place at his hip.

"_I'm over here! Please, make it stop! It's hurting me!_"

Mac moved further in to the alleyway, placing his steps cautiously, suspecting a trap but not seeing anything or anyone.

"I'm Detective Mac Taylor, NYPD! Come out and let me see your hands!" he demanded.

That was when he smelled it; a heavy, foul odor, unlike anything he'd ever smelled before, and it was right behind him. He attempted to spin around but before he could do so, _something_ wrapped itself around his neck and it was hot, so hot, and slimy. As the something started tightening around his neck, Mac instinctively dropped his gun and flashlight and started clawing at the thing around his neck, trying to see his attacker and trying to free himself before he was strangled to death.

Suddenly his attacker jerked and Mac found himself being flung. Stars exploded in his head as he made contact with a building's very unforgiving concrete wall and he slumped to the ground. His vision blurred by pain and lack of oxygen, he looked up, holding his head, and for a moment, just a moment, he _swore_ he saw glowing red eyes, eyes that definitely did not look human. But that couldn't be right, his scientific mind argued. There was no such thing. Then, before his mind could continue the argument, the darkness came and he slumped to the ground, unconscious.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Wow! goes to the reviews and here's to hoping this one meets your satisfaction once again. Both me and my co-writer thank you all!_

The first thing Mac became aware of as he regained consciousness was the pounding headache that threatened to take his head off of his neck. He groaned involuntarily and raised a hand to his aching temple. The second thing he became aware of was the fact that he had a dry mouth.

"_Here, my son, drink this. It will help you,_" came a gentle masculine voice. A hand slid under his head and gently lifted his head before placing a cup against his lips. Cool water teased his lips and he drank his fill before lying back down.

"_Rest a moment, my son, and I will return momentarily,_" came the voice again and Mac nodded, trying to regain his senses. A shuffling sound reached his ears and he knew his visitor had left him. After a moment of taking mental stock of everything, including the last thing he'd seen which had been the glowing red eyes, he carefully opened his eyes.

He blinked.

And blinked again, not sure of what he was seeing.

The sight that greeted him was one he'd never seen before, certainly not in New York; high above him, natural crystal formations shone from stalactites and flowed into the wall near him. As he looked around, his curiosity growing, he felt his eyes widening in wonder and his breath catching in awe.

Nearby, crystal and limestone-covered stalagmites jutted proudly from the cavern floor, while the cathedral-like ceiling seemed to be covered with hundreds of thousands of crystals and stalactites that seemed to shine with an unearthly light of their own. Nearby, he could hear the steady drip-drip of water as the earth continued to make the cavern. Even as the scientific part of his mind calculated and named everything he was seeing, the wistful, fanciful part of his mind started taking over and his heart started whispering in awe.

For a moment he could swear he heard what looked like singing, the kind of low, gentle murmur of a choir that one would expect to hear in an ancient place of glory, the kind that came from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

It was as if Nature had conspired with God to create this place, a sacred place of wonder, far below the earth, safe from prying eyes and grabbing hands, a place where only the truest and brightest of hearts could come here, and for a moment feel safe from all the troubles and terrors of the world.

And sacred was how it felt to Mac, as if he had just stepped in to a place that was the holiest of holies. Even his gun, which was back in its usual place, felt wrong and out of place in such a holy place and he felt almost ashamed of the fact that he had the weapon with him in the first place.

As he continued to look around at this beautiful, natural wonder, something caught his eye; a shield that looked like it had gone through Hell and back.

It hung above what looked like a natural ledge formation that created a kind of an altar, and was held in place by what looked like a simple wooden cross. Curious, Mac got up from the simple army cot he had been laying on and carefully made his way towards the altar.

The shield was somewhat small, simple but old, in a curved kite shape that was a common medieval style. A cross had been beautifully etched in to the metal and the shield gleamed despite the numerous dents and slashes in it. Mac's trained eye spotted what looked like dried blood and realized the shield and its owner had probably taken a heck of a beating. In his mind, he could almost hear the sounds of battle as the unknown knight fought with his enemy.

Then he spotted something written in what looked like Latin below the shield.

"_Illi quisnam venit pro, illi quisnam es, quod illi quisnam mos._"

Unfortunately, aside from scientific purposes, his Latin was pretty rusty. Underneath the shield and the words were dozens of lit tealight candles in various holders, all with what looked like female names on the holders. The light from the candles cast a warm glow on the shield, further emphasizing the peacefulness of the cavern.

A gentle shuffling noise caught his attention and he looked around, spotting what looked like an elderly man in a long brown robe carefully making his way towards him, a steaming stoneware cup in his rheumatoid arthritic-stricken hands. A white collar peeked out from the top of the robe but he wore no cross or other ornamental jewelry to suggest what religious sect he belonged to. A neatly trimmed white beard, white hair, and kind blue eyes looked from an aged face that clearly had many years on it.

He smiled at Mac and said, "For those who came before, for those who are, and for those who will." When Mac blinked in confusion, he smiled again and said, "That is the translation of the words you were studying. Here, drink this; it will help you."

Mac accepted the cup and took a careful sip. A warm liquid flowed over his mouth and his brain struggled to process the various flavors as they crossed his tongue. Even as he drank, he felt his headache fading away and he blinked in amazement.

"Thank you, sir," Mac said, not sure what to call his companion but, for some reason, liking him instantly.

"I am Father Thomas. Welcome," he said.

"Thank you, Father. Where I am?"

Father Thomas smiled and said, "You are still within the city, but for a man of science, surely even you know that Mother Earth has her secrets and hides them well."

He thought about that and nodded. "And the tealights with the names on them?" he asked.

"In honor of those who have served and now rest," Father Thomas said, sadness in his eyes. "This is a sacred place, my son, a place of sanctuary, one of the few still left to the Children. I have been here many, many years and to my knowledge, you are the only one who was not of the Children to be brought here. Such an action is considered a great honor and a great privilege by one of the Children."

"What are the Children, Father?"

"They are the Children of the Light, those who are Called to stand against the Darkness. Once there was only one, but now there are many. They are the last line of defense humanity has against the Darkness and as long as they continue to fight, humanity has a chance. Sadly though, as their numbers have increased, so have the deaths," Father Thomas said.

"I don't understand," Mac said, hoping for more detail.

Father Thomas smiled kindly and patted Mac's shoulder. "There are some things and some mysteries, my son, that are best left alone. Should the Child who brought you here chose to tell you more, she will, but it will be by her choice, not yours."

"Well, who brought me here?"

"_I did,_" came a familiar voice. It was Artie, and she was dressed in dark jeans, combat boots, turtleneck shirt, large leather jacket, gloves, and skullcap. Her dark look was completed by a dark scowl across her otherwise lovely face.

"Artie?" Mac asked, puzzled.

"Glad to see you up and moving and that your head is still firmly attached to your shoulders," she said sweetly. Then she walked right up to him and got right in his face. In a low, angry voice she hissed, "I brought you here to keep you safe, thanks to your _stupid_ actions that damn near cost you your miserable life. Because this is a place of peace, I'll hold my tongue, but I'll warn you right now, you and I are going to have some words, _Detective_." Then she turned to Father Thomas and promptly did a complete turn-around in personality, becoming respectful and polite, almost affectionate. "Thank you for tending him, Father. Unfortunately I must ask two more favors of you."

Father Thomas put a hand on Artie's shoulder smiled and said, "Anything, my child. All you have to do is ask."

She smiled and said, "First, I must ask that you escort him to the surface. The night is not over and there is still business I must attend to."

"Gladly, child."

"Second, rest, Father, please. You have done much for us but there is bad trouble coming down, I can feel it, and you are going to need all the strength you can get when it happens, we will need you greatly when the time comes."

Father Thomas laughed gently and patted Artie's face with grandfatherly affection. "Fear not for me, my child, for I will be ready when the time comes. Be safe and be well."

Artie smiled again, cupping Father Thomas' hand in hers before nodding once. She shot Mac a dark look of warning and then left the cavern as quietly as she had come.

Still smiling, Father Thomas said to Mac, "Come, this way."

Mac was lead through a series of twisting paths that he tried desperately to remember, before finding himself outside. It was still nighttime and the sky was still clear but there were plenty of shadows where they were, making it hard for him to pick out any real landmark, one that could help him figure out where he was and help him remember where to go. In the distance he could hear the sounds of the city and deuced he must be somewhere in Central Park, near one of the many hills that dotted the area. It wouldn't take much for him to get home.

"Head west and you will find your way out of the park," Father Thomas said. Then he sighed heavily as he studied the sky. "It has been some time since I have seen the night sky."

"Why is that?" Mac asked.

"Because the night is dangerous, my son, as you surely know," Father Thomas chided gently, "especially for one as old as I am." Mac nodded, still trying to process all that had happened. "I part ways with you here but offer some advice that I pray you heed. The questions you ask will only lead you to places you are not meant to be and may never be able to return from, and in doing so you risk the lives and the secrecy of the Children, my son. While I know you are a man of science and an officer of the law, surely even you know there are some questions and some things best left alone."

"Are you telling me to quit asking questions about Artie?" Mac asked, raising an eyebrow and thinking that Father Thomas reminded him of Gandalf the White giving counsel to King Theodon in the movie _Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers_.

"About her and the Children."

"And if I chose to continue asking questions?"

"Then I assure you, Artie will resolve the issue, as she and the Children have done before. They, and others, guard their secrets carefully, for in doing so, guard their lives." There was a final certainty in the old man's eyes; one Mac wasn't quite sure what to make of.

"I'll take your advice under consideration," he finally said.

"That is all I ask. Now, I bid you good night and good luck." Father Thomas nodded once, and blended back in to the shadows.

Mac instantly reached for his flashlight, back in his pocket where it had been originally, and shone the light over the area Father Thomas had disappeared into. Damnit. He couldn't make out anything that suggested any kind of entrance, hidden or otherwise. Frustrated and tired, he decided this was one mystery that could wait until morning.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: since my stomach and I are finally back on speaking terms, I've been on a bit of a roll with the recent chapters. Hope this is up to your liking._

"I'd heard you were considered one of New York's finest," came a soft voice from somewhere in the shadows of the underground parking lot.

Mac's head snapped up. He had just gotten out of his car and was reaching to get his briefcase from the backseat when the voice had spoken. It had been several days since Artie's warning and he hadn't seen nor heard from her since.

She quietly emerged from behind one of the many concrete pillars that were in the underground parking of the NYPD building. He blinked at her rather unusual attire; black fedora, slim black slacks, long fitted black blazer, polished black shoes, black gloves, and a dark red blouse that was open at the collar. Her only jewelry appeared to be a large gleaming silver medallion that hung from a chain around her neck. So used to seeing her in ordinary street clothes, it was a bit of a surprise to see her in formal wear.

In answer to her statement, he said, "I've been told I am, yes."

She began to walk towards him with slow, measured steps and said, "So I'm correct in understanding that you're a veteran cop as well as an experienced former Marine?"

"Yes," he replied, wondering where this was going.

"Then why the hell didn't you act like it, you stupid sonovabitch!" she suddenly exploded, rage etching her features.

His eyebrows shot up at the sudden verbal assault.

"I'm sorry?" he said, not liking this and wondering where the hell it had come from.

"You're supposed to be a cop! You're supposed to have more brains than most of the morons on the streets! Why the hell didn't you call for back-up before entering that goddamn alley! You knew better than that! For fuck's sake, haven't you done enough crime scenes where bodies have been found in dark alleys?" she yelled, gesturing angrily. "Use your fucking head, Stubby! You could have been killed, dumbass!"

"I didn't have time to call for back-up!" he snapped, becoming defensive.

"And I don't have time to attend another goddamn funeral! I've already attended two this month; I sure as hell don't want to attend another one, especially yours! Don't you know that little girl-voice thing is one of the oldest tricks in the fucking book? And you call yourself a man of science!" She spun around in disgust, throwing her hands up in the air. "Good grief, Stubby, what are you trying to do; send yourself to an early grave? 'Cause you're going the right way about it!" She spun back, stalked towards him, and jabbed a finger at him. "Your questions are going to get some good people killed if you don't back the hell off!"

"Then start answering the questions, damnit! There's something in your eyes, something that says you've seen a lot of pain, and I want to help you!" he protested. "But I can't do that if you won't answer my questions! Are you involved in a cult or something? Damnit, Artie, you're just a kid!"

Her eyes went cold and the hairs on the back of Mac's neck rose as a result. Then, with absolutely no warning, she struck.

He found himself being kicked viciously in the chest and slammed against one of the concrete pillars. Before he could move or react, something flashed past his eyes and hit the pillar with a metallic-sounding _clang_. He froze when he felt the cold touch of metal pressing against his neck. Without moving his head, he looked towards what was against his neck and felt his heart stop. It was a slim, steel double-edged dagger with no hilt and it was firmly in Artie's grasp. He carefully reached for his gun… and heard the unmistakable _click_ of the safety on his gun being pulled back.

"Looking for something?" she whispered coldly, less than three inches away from his face.

One of his worst nightmares coming true, Mac looked down and saw his gun in her hand, aimed at his stomach.

"I can take care of myself, Stubby, obviously better than you can." she hissed. "Since you're so damn determined to know me, I'll tell you what I am; I'm a killer, not a kid, and I haven't been a kid for a long time. Matter of fact, I often wonder if I dreamed it all. I've killed before and I'll kill again. I draw the line at humans as part of my code, but there are others who don't follow that code. The Children aren't a cult, we're the Called; there's a difference. We stick together out of a need for survival, both for our sake and for dumb jackasses like you. Consider this your last warning, Stubby; stay the _hell_ out of my world."

She stepped back, dagger and gun in hand. Calmly putting the safety back on his gun, she held it up to him with one finger through the trigger guard. "Here's your toy back; it's useless in my world," she said.

He accepted the gun and said, "You do know that carrying a concealed weapon is against the law?"

She just glared at him as she slipped the dagger back into its hiding spot under her blazer. "So arrest me, asshole; I could do with a good night's sleep; haven't had one in a long time."

Deciding to let the subject drop and try and turn the tables on her, he asked, "What was it that was in that alleyway?"

"A fucking nightmare, that's what! I'd been tracking that thing for over two weeks and the little girl voice is its favorite bait trick! And then you get involved, damn near get yourself strangled, never mind clobbered senseless, and I ruin my favorite jacket taking the damn thing down!" she gripped. "And that was just a small one!"

Mac's eyebrows shot up at this typical display of teenage behavior. "You're pissed off because the… monster… ruined your favorite jacket?"

"Yeah, no thanks to you!"

"I'll replace the damn jacket!" he snapped.

"That's not the point, you moron! It was a nice jacket and I swiped it off a cop!"

"Which cop?" he asked suspiciously.

She smiled sweetly. "One I hated. Boy-oh sure had good taste in clothes, especially for one who looked like a certain Greek Adonis."

He hesitated as he remembered some rumors Stella had passed on to him from the cop grapevine. "What did you do?"

She grinned broadly and said, "Some things you're better off not knowing."

"Artie…" he warned.

"What! I didn't do anything… much," she protested indignantly. Then she sighed heavily. "Look, Stubby, all said and done, for some stupid reason I like you, okay? I've seen too much death and sorrow. I've lost too many friends and too much family. I don't want to loose you and I sure as hell don't want to attend your funeral any time soon, all right?"

"It cuts both ways, Artie."

She shrugged and said, "Who says you'll be attending my funeral? Girls like me, we don't get funerals, just memorials, if we're lucky." He opened his mouth to say something and she raised a silencing hand. "Leave it at that, Stubby, leave it at that." And with that, she began to walk away. "Oh, by the way, how did the cop look with blue hair?" she called over her shoulder.

"Artie, what did you do?" he demanded suspiciously.

She didn't reply directly. Instead, as her walk turned in to a sashay, she began to sing, "_'Cause I got friends in low places / Where whisky drowns and the beer chases / My blues away and I'll be okay / I'm not big on social graces / Think I'll slip on down to the oasis / Oh I got friends in low places._"

Mac didn't know whether to laugh or groan.


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Many, many appologizes for the major delay in up-dates. Life kinda, sorta, got in the way. Needless to say, my pregnancy is finally progressing normally and I finally got a chance to get some real writting done. Sure, this one's a bit bland but the next chapter will be even better, promise. Thanks kindly for your patience._

Poor Mac; just when he thought things couldn't get any busier for him, they did. Over the next several weeks he was literally rushed off his feet.

First their was Lindsey and her court case back in Montana, where she had to testify against a man who had killed her childhood friends in a bloody rampage. It hadn't surprised him at all when Danny had abruptly left to go to Montana just to support Lindsey; he'd been aware of the attraction his two CSIs shared for some time, especially after the Holly Golightly diamond heist case. Both Flack and Stella had seen Danny and Lindsey in a tight embrace after the flash-bang had gone off.

Then Stella had hit him with the news that she might have contracted HIV after accidentally cutting herself on a piece of glass covered in blood from HIV-positive suicide victim Emery Gable. At first they had three months to find out and then, with the introduction of a special DNA test, which Adam Ross preformed, they found out even faster; Stella did not have HIV, a major relief for everyone who knew.

While that was going on, Mac was trying to help M.E. Peyton Driscoll solve a rather puzzling case where a body she had declared DOA was not quite so dead after all. Between him, Danny, and Peyton, they solved the case and in the process Mac's relationship with Peyton grew stronger.

Then Clay Dobson was released due to Detective Dean Truby incarnation for skimming and dealing in black cocaine as well as murder. That was bad but it got worse; Dobson was a serial killer and once he was released, he struck again. This lead to a very nasty rooftop confrontation that lead to Dobson commiting suicide _after_ snapping Mac's handcuffs on him and telling him, "If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me." While the evidence initially cleared Mac, both Inspector Stanton Gerrard and Chief of Detectives Brigham Sinclair got put through public pressure to try him through the courts, essentially turning him into a scapegoat for their own career ambitions. It wasn't until Detective Truby, who admitted to Mac that he had screwed up royally and that Mac had done the right thing by busting him, had given him a trump card that could be used against both Gerrard and Sinclair that the weight on his shoulders finally lifted.

Almost two months passed before Mac realized he hadn't seen hide nor hair of Artie. When he mentioned it to Flack, the blue-eyed detective just shrugged.

"Artie's like the wind, Mac," he said. "She comes, she goes, keeps a low profile just like most street kids. She'll show up if and when she chooses to. Artie's one of the few kids I don't worry about too much because I know she can take care of herself."

And so, another week passed. Then one quiet evening, while Peyton was doing a night shift at the Morgue, Mac was having a quiet evening to himself. He was seriously contemplating ordering a pizza from his favorite pizza joint and had in fact picked up the pizza joint menu when a knock came at his door.

Curious, Mac cautiously checked through the peephole and then flung the door open as he spotted Artie leaning heavily against the doorframe.

"Artie! What the hell happened to you?" he demanded. And he had good reason to.

She was pale, sweating, her pupils enlarged, her breathing erratic, and her dark green camouflage shirt was stained with what looked like blood seeping from her right shoulder region. She was holding her right arm close to her chest and he could see that her left hand was covered in blood. There was a nasty tear in the right shoulder area of her large black denim jacket; the cause of the tear, he couldn't even begin to guess. Her dark brown cargo pants were covered in what looked like dirt and maybe one or two other things he wasn't sure about. The same went for her boots.

She gave him a dopey grin and said, "Hi Daddy! Sorry I'm late coming home; my birthday party went on a bit too long but it was a lotta fun!"

And with that odd statement, she collapsed in his shocked arms, her eyes rolling back into her head.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: okay, so I'm going to go for a multipule shot here; submitting several chapters at once, several which had already been written. Enjoy._

"Artie, what the hell did you do?" Mac demanded as he got the teenage girl over to his couch.

She gave him a weak grin and said, "You really wanna know?"

He thought about that for a moment and then said, "No, the less I know the better, but you know, I really should take you to the hospital."

"Not a chance in hell, buddy! _I _like sticking sharp pointy things in people; I sure as hell _am not_ having sharp pointy things stuck in my ass!" she shot back.

"Well, you may need stitches," he pointed out.

"And you may get a rebar wrapped around your head if you try it!"

"Well, at least stop bleeding all over my couch; I just had the thing steam-cleaned!"

"What are you gripping about; you been trying to get my DNA ever since I've known you!"

"Not if I have to cut it out of my couch to get it!"

"Picky, picky, picky!"

He raised an eyebrow at her and she smiled sweetly. "Why didn't you head for the sanctuary, that cavern of yours?" he asked.

"Too damn far away and besides, Father Thomas hasn't been feeling well lately."

"You really do care about him."

She grunted. "About as much as I care about anyone. Now, you gonna stop staring or are you gonna help me get this damn shirt off so I can clean up my latest owies?"

"I may have to cut your shirt off," he cautioned her.

She gave a small shrug. "It was a cheap shirt anyway."

"Where'd you steal this one from?"

She glared at him and answered with a raspberry, causing him to chuckle. "Well, just so you've been warned. Stay put while I get a few things." As he headed for the bathroom to gather up a few medical supplies and his First Aid kit, he heard Artie mutter something.

"Hey Lady, if you'll forgive all the fast little ones I've pulled on you, I'll forgive you for the great big whoopee you just pulled on me!"

"Lady? As in Goddess of the Moon and all that?" he called back, puzzled by the comment.

"Who do you think?" she shot back indignantly. "I don't kow-tow to no boy-toy!"

"You don't kow-tow to anybody, it seems!"

"And your point is?"

"Good point," he conceded.

A moment later he was back with his supplies, which included plenty of clean warm water, paper towels, latex gloves, medical tape, gauze, scissors, and a garbage bin for it all, plus his First Aid kit. He also snagged a blanket and a pillow from the bedroom since he firmly intended to make sure Artie parked her butt on his couch for the remainder of the night. Then he put a towel on the couch behind her back to prevent the blood from staining his couch; he really didn't feel like explaining that to Peyton, who would no doubt freak. After all, she was a doctor, Medical Examiner or not, and in her world, anyone as seriously injured as he suspected Artie was, belonged in a hospital where she could get proper medical attention, not on a cop's couch with basic First Aid supplies, even if some of his supplies had been the result of a neck injury when he'd been caught in building that had been blown up by a bomb.

He carefully assisted her in getting her jacket, wincing in sympathy as she moaned quietly in pain. Her shirt was a mess. Using the scissors he carefully cut the shirt away, stopping every now and then to use damp gauze on areas where the blood had dried the shirt to her skin. It looked like her injury, which turned out to be a nasty-looking slash across her shoulder and shoulder blade, had bled quite a bit before clotting. Considering the volume of blood on her shirt and jacket, it didn't look serious enough for stitches but would require a bandage for the next several days while it healed fully. Her hand didn't look too bad but it would require cleaning and, of course, a bandage to protect it. Since the bleeding seemed to have stopped there for now, he would clean it last and attend to her shoulder first.

"Your injury either bled a hell of a lot at first or you heal fast," he commented.

"One of the perks," she muttered.

"I'm sorry?" he asked.

"Never mind."

There was something in her voice that suggested that he drop the subject. He did, _for now_.

"Okay, I'm going to have to clean this and I'll warn you, it's going to smart," he cautioned.

"If it smarts that means I'm still alive," she shot back.

She had a point. Still, he was going to give her something that would take the edge off.

He got up and carefully poured a finger of whiskey from his supply before handing it to her, saying, "Sip this carefully; it'll..."

But before he'd even finished his sentence, she'd knocked the drink back, causing him to raise his eyebrows. Her reaction was predictably instantaneous.

She shot forward, coughing as the alcoholic drink burned its way down her throat to her stomach.

"_Whoo-hoo!_ That stuff _burns,_ baby!" she yelped.

"Of course, it's whiskey; specifically Crown Royal Limited Edition, which you just knocked back like water," he said sarcastically.

"I'm a kid; what the hell do I know!" she shot back, handing him the glass, coughing.

"If you'd listened to me, you would have known."

"Since when do I ever listen to you?"

"I wish you would. Might make things a bit easier."

"Where's the fun in that?"

He glared and she just smiled sweetly.

"You done yet?" he asked.

"For now."

"Good." And he set to work.

He tried to be gentle but it wasn't easy. Every now and then she would flinch or moan softly.

As he worked, he asked her gently, "Where's your family, Artie?"

Eyes closed, head back, she whispered tiredly, "Gone. They had to go home before I wanted them to, when I still needed them."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She shrugged her good shoulder. "Shit happens. There are plenty of others out there with worse sob stories than mine."

"But no one should be without a family, especially someone as young as you."

"I make do."

"How old are you, anyway?"

"Eighteen, I think."

"You think?"

"Not in to celebrating birthdays; not really my thing."

"Well, what is your thing?"

"Trying to stay alive."

"Doesn't sound like a lot of fun."

"Beats the alternative."

"Which is?"

"Dying."

He finished patching up her shoulder and moved on to her hand. She opened her eyes and leaned forward, studying her hand.

He picked up a clean piece of gauze, dampened with the water and carefully began to clean it. The blood had already begun to crust around the wound and when he removed the crust the cut started bleeding again.

As they watched, three drops of blood steadily dripped on to the gauze. At that precise moment, in the distance, very faintly, the sound of a bell began tolling steadily, almost in rhythm to each drop of blood.

Artie froze. She looked at the blood and then looked at him with eyes he could only describe as being terrified.

"Artie?" he asked gently, concerned.

She recited quietly.

"Each man's death diminishes me,

For I am involved in mankind.

Therefore, send not to know

For whom the bell tolls."

"It tolls for thee," he said, finishing the line. "John Donne, _For Whom the Bell Tolls._ Are you okay?" he asked, concerned.

She shrugged, leaning back against the couch and closing her eyes. "'Bout as well as can be, I suppose. You done yet?"

"Just about." He finished cleaning up her cut and bandaging it. "You hungry?" he asked. "I was just about to order a pizza."

"Sounds good. You do olives?"

"I do. How about Greek?" he asked, remembering that Flack had mentioned her liking Greek pizza, as he cleaned up the minor mess he'd made and pitched her ruined shirt in the garbage bin, planning to take it out in the morning when he headed to work.

"Man after my own heart."

He chuckled.

They chowed down on their respective pizzas, the Greek pizza for her and a pepperoni pizza with extra cheese for him, as they watched the news and one or two other programs. After a bit Mac could see Artie was loosing the battle to stay awake so he gently helped her lay down on the couch and carefully covered her with a blanket, tucking a pillow behind her head.

"I really appreciate this, Stubby, and I'm sorry if I've caused you any trouble in any way," she said quietly.

"No problem; that's what friends are for," he said, gently stroking her hair out of her face. "You sleep and we'll talk some more in the morning."

She nodded tiredly and closed her eyes. Within moments she was asleep.

After Mac tidied up his apartment, he too went to bed, fully expecting Artie to be on his couch the next morning. Instead, he was woken to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and a nasty suspicion that something wasn't right.

Sure enough, the couch was empty, save a neatly folded blanket, pillow, empty coffee cup on the table, and a note. Artie was nowhere in sight.

"_Hey Stubby;_

_Thanks for letting me crash here last night, the pizza, and the bandages; again much appreciated. Due to the fact that my shirt is now in your garbage, I swiped one of your shirts. It's a blue striped dress shirt and was loose enough to get over my shoulder without too much discomfort on my part. You got good taste in clothes :D_

_Please don't worry about me; I'll be okay. As I said before, I heal fast and this isn't the first time I've been nailed like this. It probably won't be the last but I promise to not make last night a habit; after all, it would be kinda fun to explain to your girlfriend why a bleeding teenager keeps showing up on your doorstep rather than going to the hospital. Thank you, no._

_In the mean time, you take care of yourself, Stubby, and I'll see you around again some time._

_A._"

Curious, Mac went to his closet to see which shirt it was Artie had borrowed and he groaned. "It would _have_ to be one of my favorite dress shirts you borrowed, wouldn't it?" he groused.


	13. Chapter 13

_She was in the Cavern, watching the candlelights flicker against the Shield of the Fallen Sister, feeling the peacefulness of the sanctuary._

_Suddenly she yelped as her hand stung sharply. She looked down at her hand and saw an open cut across her palm. As she watched, someone placed a pure white cloth beneath her hand and three drops of her blood, one at a time, fell on the cloth from her cut. As they fell, as if from far, far away, a bell tolled in rhythm to each drop._

_She looked up; a man with dark hair and worried eyes looked back at her, holding the cloth. Beside him, a little girl with long blonde hair solemnly recited an age-old poem._

_"No man is an island,_

_Entire of itself._

_Each is a piece of the continent,_

_A part of the main._

_If a clod be washed away by the sea,_

_Europe is the less._

_As well as if a promontory were._

_As well as if a manner of thine own_

_Or of thine friend's were._

_Each man's death diminishes me,_

_For I am involved in mankind._

_Therefore, send not to know_

_For whom the bell tolls,_

_It tolls for thee."_

The morning sun gleamed golden as it broke across the distant horizon and a gentle breeze teased her hair. The smells of the sea teased her senses with its tang of salt, fish, oil from the various boats, seaweed, and kelp. She leaned against the railing and breathed deeply, remembering the dream, a dream that had come not so long ago, before she'd been introduced to Mac. A familiar shuffling noise caught her attention and she smiled affectionately without turning her head.

"Father. Have you come to enjoy the view?"

"Yes, and to see how you are doing, child."

Normally she would've given some glib reply but not this time. Father Thomas seemed to sense that something was bothering her and he spoke again.

"What troubles you, my child? If there's anything I can do to help you, I will."

She was quiet for a long moment and then she spoke.

"Before I was Called, I used to enjoy watching the ocean, especially in the pre-dawn. It was a different ocean, a warmer climate. It was a different lifetime and sometimes I wonder if it was all just a dream." She blinked, remembering. "I went out with a bunch of friends one night to celebrate my fifteenth birthday, came home late, and walked in to a scene straight from a horror movie. My parents and my older brother, something had entered our home and killed them." Her voice became hushed as the memories played across her mind. "Their blood was everywhere, like someone had played with them before killing them. I remember screaming and screaming and screaming. Then I remember vowing revenge on the killer, never realizing that the killer might not even be human. The next day I was Called and my first kill was the monster that had killed my family. I vowed never to care again." She gave a rueful smile and said, "Failed miserably."

"But that is what makes us human, child; our capacity for caring. We are not machines or robots; we can not shut our emotions off merely to protect ourselves; it just doesn't work that way, I'm afraid."

"I know. Believe me, I know." She looked down at the water and said, "My time is coming, Father. This fight will be one I won't be able to walk away from."

"Are you certain?"

"A bell tolling in the distance and three drops of blood on a snow-white cloth held by a man with dark hair and who spoke with his eyes rather than his voice. Shortly after I came to New York, I saw the vision in a dream and I've known for some time that would be the warning; it happened last night."

He nodded.

"The ones who came before me, I wonder if they were afraid on the eve of battle. Did they question every decision they'd made, wondering how it all came to this? Wondering if there could have been some other way? If there was something different they could have done that would have avoided the coming fight?"

"Do you?"

"Yeah, Father, I'm scared shitless."

"Of dying?"

"No, not of dying, because that comes to all of us sooner or later. What I'm afraid of is that when I need it the most, my courage, will fail me, and I'll let the people I care about down."

He smiled affectionately. "Something tells me that will not happen, child. Despite the horrors you have known, you have always been a strong one. I have seen you find strength within you even at your darkest of moments and somehow, by the grace of God, pull through. You have stood strong before; I have no doubt you will stand strong again."

"I hope so. Heaven help me, I hope so." She reached into her shirt and pulled out her favorite medallion, the one with the Solomon symbol of Protection with the 6th Pentacle of Mars engraved on it. She stared at it in silence for a few moments, rubbing a thumb across the worn engraved surface. Then looking at Father Thomas, she said, "If I'm right, if the warning comes true and I don't survive the battle, the man I brought to the sanctuary, will please give this to him, no matter what condition it's in?"

Father Thomas nodded. "I will, child, you have my word. Is there anything you would like me to tell him?"

"No, Father. Being the kind of man he is, I think he'll understand." She looked at the kindly old man who had cared for her since her arrival in New York and said, "What about you? Will you be okay?"

He smiled affectionately and said, "My work is almost done here, and another will be taking my place as Keeper. I will soon go to my rest but not before I see to the end of the coming battle."

She grinned teasingly. "You, Father? Go to your rest? Yeah, right. Rumor has it you're practically immortal. Trying to get you to rest is like trying to get a blood-sucker to stand in the sun for more than ten seconds!"

He laughed and said, "Child, I have seen this millennium turn; even I know when it's time to rest." He put an arm around her and quietly said, "Come what may, we will face it together, as we have done so before."

"Y'know, when you put it that way, it doesn't feel quite so scary after all."


	14. Chapter 14

_Several weeks later:_

Mac didn't see or hear from Artie for several weeks after she vanished from his apartment. He kept his ears open but nothing filtered in from the streets except rumors of a big, nasty battle coming down. Who with was unknown, along with where and when and why. Most of the cops shrugged off the rumors as gangland wars that may or may not happen. Mac wasn't so sure, not after Artie.

He was heading to the morgue to answer Sid's page on his latest victim when he saw something that made him freeze. In one of the labs, carefully hung up for examination, was a familiar blue-striped men's dress shirt. It looked identical to the one Artie had swiped except this shirt was heavily stained with blood and slashed in several places.

He entered the lab and approached the shirt as Sheldon joined him.

"Where did this come from?" he asked.

"It was found in a dumpster in the Bronx in a section known for gang activity," Sheldon said. He glanced at a file in his hand. "Blood came back as type AB negative, unknown female. Shirt's pretty common and the manufacture's sold over a hundred of these at various retail locations this month alone."

"Any idea what caused the slashes?"

"Something sharp, that's for sure. I'm looking at a few possibilities."

Mac was studying the slashes and the blood. "Left shoulder, across the chest to the stomach region, deep cuts. Slash across the stomach region in an upward direction. Similar slashes on the right arm and back. Shirt was probably tucked in with the sleeves rolled up."

"Would make sense if it was a female wearing it. Also explains the fibers I found on the inside of the shirt and lack of epidurals," Sheldon said. "I've seen some girls layer shirts like that. Swiping a guy's shirt is the one thing that never goes out of fashion." He grinned and Mac smiled back before Sheldon turned serious again. "I'll tell ya, Mac, whoever was wearing this, we're looking for a body. The slashes alone at the neck region alone would have caused the victim to bleed out. She would have been dead within minutes without serious medical attention."

Mac was asleep on the couch in his office, tossing restlessly. He'd worked late and had been way too tired to go home.

He'd also been constantly plagued by the nagging feeling that something wasn't right, especially after he'd seen that shirt. It had been bugging him for the rest of the day and he couldn't seem to quite put his finger on what the problem was, despite his best attempts. Surely it was a coincidence that that particular blue shirt just happened to be identical to the shirt Artie had swiped from him. Still the fact that the DNA was an unknown female…

Later he would not recall what had woken him, only that something had. He would also later wonder if the whole thing had been real or merely a dream.

He sat up, blinking in confusion. Moonlight poured through the huge glass walls, illuminating the person sitting at his desk, one who had her booted feet on his desk, someone he had not seen in some time.

"Get your feet off my desk," he said automatically.

She grinned at him. "Wondering when you'd wake up, Stubby."

"Haven't seen you in a while," he said, eyeing her get-up as she stood up from his desk. She wore black riding boots, Anarchic Greek greeves, vambraces, Greek-style female muscle cuirass, epaulettes, circlet, and studded leather skirt, all beautifully engraved and formed. Her underskirt appeared to be a red material and the leather on her armor was brown. He noticed an oval cabochon moonstone perched in the center of her circlet and how it seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, as if it had a fire of its own inside.

She moved to stand in the moonlight and looked up at the moon, studying it. "Been busy lately." She sighed heavily. "Got involved in a nasty fight recently."

"Did you win?" he asked, joining her.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," she said, flashing him a mischievous grin. "Problem is, price-tag was a bit too high for my liking. I tell ya, I did not go gentle into that good night, just like the poem said." She snorted softly. "I always did like that poem."

"I figured you'd been in a fight recently; we found the shirt," he said.

She smiled sadly and said, "But you won't find me."

"Somehow I figured that too."

She gave him a mischievous grin and said, "Well, good news is you got your shirt back."

He grunted and said, "Yeah, it's in the lab and decorated with an evidence seal. Thanks a bunch; that was my favorite shirt."

"You got good taste in clothes; can't help it if I happened to agree with you." He glared at her and she grinned even wider before shrugging her shoulders absently. "Oh well; you win some, you lose some. All that matters is how many you take with you in the process." He smiled. She continued. "The Goddess is good to her followers, though, especially us sisters. She granted me one last request."

"What was that?"

"That I be able to give you the protection of my sisters. It's a protection I pray you never need. I also ask one thing of you."

"Name it," he said automatically.

"One of the curses of the sisters is that we will die forgotten. We will not be remembered. Stubby, please don't let that happen to me. Please don't forget me." There was an earnest, desperate look on her face, one he found he could not ignore.

"I won't forget you," he found himself saying, realizing he meant it. "I give you my word that I won't forget you."

She smiled, looking relieved.

Then, very faintly, as if coming from a distance of several yards, Mac heard what sounded like laughing and giggling teenage girls. Artie heard the sound too, and she cocked her head, listening, curious.

"_Hey, girl, where ya been?_" someone called.

Artie spun around towards Mac's office door, a door that was glowing faintly, her face lighting up in recognition. As she spun, a glow surrounded her. When the glow faded, the warrior-look was gone, replaced with a typical teenage-girl look. Her hair, once boyishly short, was now long and streaked with blonde. She wore low-rise jeans, a bright pink t-shirt with the gold _Baby Phat_ cat and logo on it, a large studded black leather motorcycle jacket, and white spike-heeled boots. Large, colorful earrings dangled from her ears and she was actually wearing make-up. She even had a jewel-covered cellphone on one side of her hip and a pink iPod on the other side, its white wires snaking up and around her neck, ending in white earbuds. Mac couldn't help but stare in wonder, even as he understood the transformation. Spiritually, Artie was no longer a warrior but an ordinary teenage girl.

"Is that really you?" she called, obviously seeing something Mac couldn't.

"_Well, duh! What'd you expect? A monster?_" the voice shot back.

Artie grinned even broader and moved towards the door.

"Wait!" Mac called, realizing he still needed to know one thing. She looked back. "What's your name?"

"_You comin' or not?_" another voice called.

She blinked and then smiled. "Be right there!" she called back. Then she turned to Mac and said, "Before I was called, my grandfather named me Diana. He was an Irish boy and I was the apple of his eye."

"Diana. It's a beautiful name, just like you."

She smiled even wider.

"_Hey, Diana, you don't get a move on, you're gonna miss the latest Hugh Jackman movie, and I'll tell ya, that boy has got one _hot_ bod!_" another girl called.

"_Whoo-hoo!_" the first girl yelped excitedly.

Nodding once at Mac, Artie turned and entered the door, the glow surrounding her completely. Then she stopped and a funny look came across her face. Then she smiled but it was a smile tinged with sadness. She looked back at him and said, "Y'know, if I had the time and, I thought I had a chance with you, Mac, you wouldn't have stood a chance." Her smile turned sassy and she gave him a teasing wink before sashaying further in to the glow.

He blinked a few times, processing her remark. Then he started grinning, not sure if he should laugh or blush.

As the glow began to fade, faintly, very faintly, Mac swore he heard her laugh. It was a real, happy, carefree laugh, unlike anything he'd heard from her before and he found himself smiling in response.

Suddenly Mac snapped up from his couch. Confusion entered him as he rapidly tried to orient himself. He looked around the office, half expecting to see a grinning Artie, but there was only silence, darkness, and the moonlight. As reality returned to him, so did a wave of sadness. Something was wrong, horribly, horribly wrong.

Mac found himself standing up and going to the window where the moonlight poured through. He looked up at the moon, full, beautiful, and knew Artie, wherever she had gone, had seen that moon and knew she never would again. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the glass, his shoulders slumping in sadness. That Artie no longer walked this earth was in no doubt. A wave of regret hit him hard; regret for the woman she would never be allowed to become, and, oddly, for himself. He would miss the verbal sparing matches. A part of him held a genuine affection for her, and a deep respect.

A few days later, Mac was downtown, having just attended a court-session and was walking back towards the lab. It was a crowded area and he was a bit tired, so he sat down on a bench next to one of the many huge statues to grab a quick breather. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't recognize the elderly gentleman sitting beside him, feeding the pigeons, until he was spoken to.

"My son," the man said. It was a quiet, familiar voice and Mac's head snapped around.

"Father Thomas," he said, instantly recognizing the elderly man. Unlike last time, Father Thomas was dressed in a plain brown tweed suit and a matching, well-worn brown fedora. To Mac's eye, though, the elderly man seemed to have aged even more and he looked tired and carried an air of sadness about him, something he swore hadn't been there the last time they had met. "It's a pleasure to see you again"

"And you my son, though I wish the circumstances were better." Father Thomas sighed heavily and reached into his suit jacket. He pulled out a cloth-wrapped object, took Mac's hand, and gently placed the object into his hand and closed his fingers over it. "I was asked by one of the Children to give this to you. She said you would understand."

Curious, Mac carefully unwrapped the cloth-covered object.

His face went pale even as his blood went cold.

When Mac saw the silver medallion, he recognized it instantly; not that long ago, Artie had worn one identical to the one he held now. This medallion had two very nasty gouges across and in it, the clasp on the chain was broken, and there was blood covering a large part of the medallion. His trained eye spotted several black hairs in the chain, hairs that had what looked like roots on them. His CSI mind going in to high gear, he quickly calculated the angle of the gouges and the position of the medallion and realized that whatever had made the gouges in the metal would have been deadly to a human, slashing from the left neck or shoulder and ending at the right hip or stomach, crossing over the region of the heart. The wearer would have died within minutes.

Just like the shirt.

He was cold before and now he felt himself grow even colder. He looked up into the old man's grief-filled eyes. "My people found the shirt she swiped from me the last time I saw her. Do you know what happened, Father?"

Father Thomas shook his head. "For my safety, the Children tell me little. Just as her namesake once lead the hunt, so she led the Children and they, in turn, rallied behind her. Her courage was the turning point. Many were hurt but she was the only casualty." He sighed heavily. "It has been my honor to serve many Children, but she was the child of my heart. I know, though, my work is almost done and I rejoice in the knowledge that I will be joining her soon. I take comfort in the knowledge that another will soon take my place and care for the Children as I did for so many years." He smiled softly at Mac, patted him gently on the shoulder and said, "Be well, my son." The kindly Father then stood and slowly walked away, leaving Mac with his jumbled thoughts.

Then the hairs of the back of his neck started tingling as he felt someone watching him. He quickly scanned the bustling crowd, looking for his watcher. As he did, for some reason, a blonde teenage girl caught his eye. There was nothing special about her but she seemed to have the same air about her as Artie once had.

She looked at him, he looked at her, and she nodded once. Then the crowd moved around her and she was gone.

_Artie's promise of protection, _he realized. _She meant it and her sisters are keeping that promise._

"Artie, I'm so sorry," he whispered. He looked at the medallion again, watching as the sunlight caught the silver, causing it to gleam. A soft breeze blew around him and as it did, he swore he heard a familiar whisper.

_Don't forget me, Stubby,_ her voice whispered.

"I promise, I won't forget you," he said determinedly, his fingers closing over the medallion tightly.

True to his word, he had the medallion placed in a shadow box and hung in his office as a silent tribute to the young woman whom he knew, somewhere, was at peace now, were ever she was. He knew, deep in his heart, somehow, somewhere, she had fought the good fight and now fought no more. He sincerely hoped she was at peace, wherever she was now.

Years later, people would still comment on the blood-stained silver medallion in the cherry wood shadow box that hung in Mac's office. The box bore no name, merely a neatly penned copy of the poem, _Do Not Go Gentle Into The Good Night_ by Dylan Thomas next to the carefully displayed medallion Whenever any one asked about the box, he would simply smile sadly and he always gave the same answer.

"It's a tribute to a friend."


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: This is the final chapter in this story. It's not because my co-writer and I have grown bored with it, but simply because that was the way it had been initially laid out. Hope you enjoyed it and thank you both for your kind reviews and your patience. Here's to more stories in the future and here's to hoping we get another season of our favorite crime drama._

Two years later:

Mac stared at the black and white photograph, recognizing the youthful features of a face he had not seen in some time; Artie, once known as Diana. Her frightened, shocked face stared back at him, huddled beneath an ambulance blanket as visible tears streamed down her face. She looked so young, nothing like the girl he'd seen two years ago.

"Damndest thing I ever saw," the detective said, noticing Mac studying the photograph. His name was Detective Hesling and he was from Naples, Florida; he was attending a police conference in New York, along with over a dozen other cops and CSI's. The detective, who was giving a lecture on serial killers at an urban level, had accidentally dropped the file and Mac, being nearby, had helped him pick up the photographs.

"Oh?" he asked, handing the photograph back, not admitting he recognized the girl in the picture.

"Yeah, poor kid; she went out to celebrate her fifteenth birthday, stayed out a bit too late, and came back home to a massacre. Her whole family, both parents, older brother, they'd been viciously slaughtered. Blood _everywhere_," Hesling said, shaking his head. "It was like a human-sized _wolf_ had been there and just _ripped _them apart. Had a number of cops puking their guts up."

"I'll bet."

"Stupid thing was, no one heard or saw anything. In fact, the only thing they heard was the girl screaming when she found her family. Girl was cleared, though, beyond no shadow of a doubt 'cause a couple of weeks later, another body showed up, just like them and she was in protective custody at the time. The killings always seemed to happen during a particular phase of the moon and this one was right on time. Then, just like that, it stopped. We never did solve that case."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"So am I. I always did wonder what happened to the girl. Hope she's doing okay."

"I'm sure she is." He smiled politely at the detective and walked away.

As he got a cup of coffee from the refreshment table, he thought absently, "_Now I understand that comment you made to me once. Hell of a way to celebrate your fifteenth birthday, huh, Artie? And I'll bet you made the bastard pay."_

Then, for a moment, as if from far away, almost as if on a breeze, Mac swore he heard her reply and he swore he heard a hard satisfaction in her voice.

_You're damn right I did._


End file.
